None of what we are doing has in any fashion been introduced into the trial. The judge, jury, and prosecution all have no idea that Troy Preston’s murder is one in a series or that Bobby Pollard is a suspect. All we have done as a defense is try to poke holes in the prosecution’s case and shift suspicion onto Troy’s drug connections.
What we have learned would be a bomb detonating in the courtroom, and we have to figure out how to minimize the damage our client might suffer in the explosion. After all, we could be setting up Kenny as a serial killer. Right now our only credible reason for thinking the killer is Pollard, rather than Kenny, is the fact that the imprisoned Kenny could not have killed Adam. It is possible that Quintana really did kill Adam, thinking he was me. Perhaps Adam just placed his notes in a location that the police haven’t uncovered. I don’t believe that scenario, but it’s only important what Judge Harrison and the jury believe.
An even more immediate problem is how to get all this admitted in the first place. There is a very real possibility that Judge Harrison won’t let it in. We can’t even prove that the other deaths were murders; in each case the police say otherwise. Harrison could rule that none of this is relevant, and there’s not an appeals court in the free world that would overturn him.
Laurie has learned from the doctor that a drug form of potassium not only can cause heart attacks when administered in an overdose but would be undetectable in an autopsy unless the coroner had a specific reason to screen for potassium poisoning. The reason it’s so hard to find is that once death occurs, cells in the body break down and release potassium on their own. Potassium as an agent of homicide is very unlikely to be discovered by a coroner, especially in small-town jurisdictions.
This news points even more directly at Pollard, since as a team trainer he has substantial contact with the medical staff and the drugs that they use. He would also have access to their prescription pads.
I have a four o’clock meeting with Pollard, which had been planned to discuss his potential testimony, scheduled for sometime this week. I don’t want to cancel it because I don’t want to give him the slightest hint that there is anything unusual going on.
Laurie wants to come with me, no doubt because she remembers all too well what happened to Adam. I decide to go alone, for the same reason I didn’t want to cancel the meeting. I don’t want Bobby Pollard to have the slightest inkling that there are new developments.
We meet at the Pollards’, in deference to his difficulty in getting around. I’m growing increasingly suspicious of that difficulty, but I’m not about to reveal that suspicion.
Teri Pollard greets me as warmly as she did the first time I was at their house, and I accept lemonade and home-baked cookies from the myriad of refreshments that she offers me. I can’t help feeling sorry for her; she has devoted her life to Bobby Pollard, and if I’m right, and successful, it’s all going to come crashing down on her.
Having been a reluctant witness herself in Dylan’s case, Teri asks if I mind if she sits in on my meeting with Bobby. I tell her that’s fine, and she brings me into the den, where Bobby waits in his wheelchair. I start my conversation with either Bobby Pollard an innocent paraplegic or Bobby Pollard an injury-faking serial killer.
I don’t want to lie to him at this point, so I’m careful in how I phrase my comments and questions. “Character witnesses don’t generally add to the facts of the case, but simply offer their high opinions of the defendant. I assume your view would be that Kenny Schilling is not the type of man that would commit murder?”
He nods. “Absolutely. I know him better than anyone.”
We go through these platitudes for about ten minutes, at which point I switch to questions that Dylan might ask him, so as to prepare him. I don’t make the questions too difficult, since Dylan would have no reason to attack him.
Once we’re finished, we chat in more general terms about football and the Giants’ prospects without Kenny. His hope is to have Kenny back in a couple of weeks, which would be ample time for a play-off run.
I tell Bobby that I’ll give him at least twenty-four hours’ notice before he testifies. I leave out the part about ripping him apart on the stand and about making sure he spends the rest of his life in a seven-by-ten-foot cell. There’ll be time to tell him that later.
I head home and prepare for my meeting with Dominic Petrone. His people pick me up at eight P.M. sharp. Except for shrinks, mobsters are the most punctual people I know. The driver tells me to sit in the passenger seat, and I notice when I do that his partner is stationed directly behind me. I feel like Paulie being driven by Clemenza into the city to find apartments where the button men can go to the “mattresses.” This driver doesn’t have any cannoli, but if he pulls over to get out and take a piss, I’m outta here.
They drive me to the back entrance of Vico’s, an Italian restaurant in Totowa. It has always been considered a mob hangout, a rumor that I can now officially confirm.
The driver tells me to walk in through the back door, which I do. I’m met by an enormous man who frisks me and brings me into a private room where Dominic Petrone is waiting.
Petrone is a rather charming man, early sixties, salt-and-pepper hair, with a dignified manner that one would expect of a successful head of a large business. He’s a typical CEO of a company where the “E” stands for “executions.” He greets me graciously, as he might an old but not terribly close friend, and suggests I sit down. I find it a smart thing to do what Petrone suggests, so I take a seat opposite him.
The table is set for dinner for one, and in fact Petrone is already eating his bruschetta appetizer. I’ve got a hunch I’m not invited for dinner. “What can I do for you?” he asks.
“I may be able to give you Cesar Quintana,” I say.
“Give him to me for what purpose?”
“That’s up to you,” I say. “Whatever you decide, all that I care about is that he no longer wants to kill me.”
“You say you ‘may’ be able to give him to me?”
I nod. “I’m pretty sure I can, but I haven’t decided yet if I want to. I won’t know that until I’m in the moment.”
I proceed to tell him my plan, the bottom line being that I will place a call to him if I’m going to give him Quintana. If I do, he’ll have to be ready to move immediately, though I’m not yet telling him where this will take place.
He nods, as if it all makes perfect sense, though I’m sure he considers this the most ridiculous plan he’s ever heard. It’s also got to be, from his perspective, almost too good to be true. “Is there something else you want from me, something you haven’t yet mentioned?”
“Just one thing,” I say. “Can you cash a check?”
* * * * *
TODAY MIGHT BE the weirdest midtrial Sunday I’ve ever spent. I have witnesses scheduled for tomorrow, but they’re part of a strategy that I’ve decided to abandon, so there’s no reason for me to call them.
All I can do is wait to see if Sam can come up with enough information to make my new strategy viable, and if he does, I’ll have to figure out how to convince Judge Harrison to let me use it.
The first thing I do is call Willie Miller and tell him that Petrone has agreed to my terms and that he should tell Marcus to move forward on our plan. I haven’t brought Laurie into this operation because it’s both dangerous and illegal. She would try to stop me, or perhaps get involved herself, and neither of those options is acceptable to me.
With that call accomplished, I have to fill the rest of the day. I would take Tara out for a long walk, to clear my head and enjoy the autumn air, except for the fact that a Mexican drug lord is sworn to kill me. I’m trying to deal with that, but for now the idea of bullets flying through that autumn air puts a damper on things.